


Wednesday's Child

by xylodemon



Category: American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: Book Spoilers, Future Fic, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-05
Updated: 2006-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-28 14:50:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,015
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/309020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xylodemon/pseuds/xylodemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Shadow buys a car, drives to California, meets a pirate, and has too much to drink -- approximately in that order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wednesday's Child

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place after the short story _Monarch of the Glen_ ; contains vague spoilers.

Interstate 210 slid through the San Gabriel Valley like a snake, slithering a bit south but mostly east as it led drivers toward the Inland Empire. On the left, Monrovia became Duarte with an explosion of car dealerships. Late afternoon shifted to early evening, and the digital sign above Performance Nissan promised low APR for qualified buyers.

Shadow's car was a '71 El Camino with a busted taillight and four practically bald whitewalls. He purchased it from Leon's Automotive & Sales on his way out of Chicago, and he paid Leon -- not _the_ Leon, but his son, who was also named Leon -- $780 in cash. It was the kind of dingy, sun-bleached ecru that still looked dirty after a wash and wax, but Shadow suspected it had been banana-yellow before it sat on Leon's back lot for close to five years.

The traffic grew heavier, slowing to a crawl as the freeway signs announced the upcoming junction with Interstate 605. The sun slipped away, flashing pink and orange in Shadow's rearview mirror, and Shadow let his foot hover over the brake. He paused to sip his coffee -- a grande drip, according to the girl at Starbucks, although Shadow had ordered a medium coffee -- hesitating long enough to be cut off by a school bus.

He changed lanes, sliding in behind a Chevrolet pickup. It was violently red, with rims that looked like they were worth more than the vehicle's blue book. He didn't bother to use his blinker. Blinkers were a foreign thing here; in two weeks, he'd only seen a handful of people use them.

California was very different on the postcards. He was still not sure why he came.

When Smith offered Shadow a one-way ticket out of Scotland, Shadow said he was going to Chicago. He said he was going home. But Shadow arrived on a cool, steel-gray morning only to find that it wasn't. Not really. Not anymore. It was a strange place, an empty place, a place where everyone he used to know was dead.

There had been an apartment waiting for him -- Smith's work, Shadow was sure; he found the keys, tagged with an address, in the bottom of his duffel bag when he stopped in an O'Hare bathroom to wash his face and change his clothes -- but he hadn't stayed long. Chicago was dead thing, an endless, trafficked and skyscrapered funeral, and he hadn't been comfortable with the possibility of waking up to Smith standing at the foot of his bed.

The El Camino drank oil, but at least it was alive. It was better than Chicago, and the odometer was ten thousand miles heavier than it had been when he bought the car last August. He'd driven through Eagle Point, but the boarded-up shell of the Muscle Farm had looked like a mausoleum. He'd also stopped by the House on the Rock -- to pay his respects, he had told himself, not to see if the carousel animals could still come to life -- but the mechanical gypsy had given him the same fortune as before.

He had thought of Ibis and Jacquel, when the highway heading out of Illinois had threatened him with Cairo, but the sun had burned tawny over the flatlands, making the brush on the shoulder shimmer like sand, and Shadow had kept driving. He had visited Czernobog that once, because he had promised, but Ibis and Jacquel were different, and after everything that had happened, Shadow wasn't sure if he was welcome.

There had been Arkansas, which was hot, then Louisiana, which was humid, and then Texas, which was both. Shadow hadn't had a plan; California had just happened, somewhere after New Mexico and Arizona. The beach had been nice -- Shadow had never been before -- but there wasn't much else to California, other than Hollywood and Disneyland, and a labyrinth of freeways that never seemed to be moving.

The El Camino began to shake, with the kind of arthritic sputter that suggested the engine was tired of sucking on fumes. Shadow sipped his coffee again, and headed for the next exit, Irwindale Avenue. The fuel gage said Shadow had a bit more than half a tank, but the fuel gage always said that. It hadn't moved since Shadow pulled out of Leon's driveway.

Irwindale Avenue offered an ARCO just north of the freeway, which boasted an AM/PM Mini-Mart, and eighty-seven octane at the low, low price of $1.69 a gallon. Shadow thought this was closer to what his mother would have called highway robbery, but since the only other points of interest on Irwindale Avenue seemed to be a Denny's and what looked like a limestone quarry, Shadow doubted he'd have the chance to shop around before he found out, firsthand, how much a '71 El Camino weighed.

The temperature inside the AM/PM was suitable for a meat-locker, and an instrumental version of Jailhouse Rock threaded its way through the nearly frozen air. The cashier was college age, with long, unkempt hair and the bloodshot eyes of someone who smoked pot behind the building on his coffee break. A faded black band T-shirt peaked out from underneath his red and blue AM/PM smock, and he yawned as Shadow approached the counter.

Shadow purchased a large coffee and a small bottle of water. He paid the college age pothead with a twenty, and asked him to put the change on pump four.

The El Camino took all the gas, then promptly refused to start.

\--

Faced with Shadow and Shadow's not-quite banana-yellow dilemma, Pothead yawned. When it looked like Shadow wasn't going to go away, he yawned again, and set aside his dog-eared copy of Heavy Metal Guitar.

"What's the matter with it?"

Shadow paused, frowning. He'd always been the strong man. He was the guy who beat people up and the guy who moved furniture. He wasn't the guy who knew a lot about cars.

"I'm not sure," Shadow admitted. "It just won't start."

Pothead shrugged, and made a futile attempt to push his hair out of his face. "Dunno what to tell you," he said. "Cars aren't my thing, man."

Pothead was probably telling the truth. He probably didn't even own a car. He probably hadn't paid for the bag of Cool Ranch Doritios waiting next to his magazine.

"Do you have someone here who could look at it?" Shadow asked. He leaned on the counter, jostling an arsenal of disposable cigarette lighters arranged by color in a plastic rack. "A mechanic?"

"Nah," Pothead replied. "We don't have a shop, or anything." He shrugged again, and waved a lazy hand toward the door. "There's a couple of repair places down on Arrow Highway. I think the pay-phone outside's got a phone book."

The phone book was three years out of date, and attached to the phone with the kind of synthetic cording that looked pencil-thin but would politely refuse to be cut by a chainsaw. It was just short enough that Shadow couldn't quite hold the phone book while standing upright, and someone had thoughtfully torn out the first page of automotive repair listings.

Shadow decided on Irwindale Truck & Auto Repair, since it was the only listing on the remaining page that seemed to be local. As Pothead had suspected, it was on Arrow Highway -- wherever _that_ was -- and Shadow fed three quarters into the pay-phone before he realized the automated operator was not asking for more money, but telling him the line was out of service.

He ripped the page he needed out of the phone book, walked back to the El Camino, and fished his cell phone out of the glove compartment.

The cell phone was also Smith's work; Shadow found it in one of his kitchen drawers the day after he moved into his Chicago apartment. It was sleek and silver, with an unlisted Michigan phone number and a camera Shadow had never learned to operate. In the six months Shadow had used it, he had never paid a bill. He'd never received a bill. The phone seemed to work simply because Shadow wanted it to.

It rang twice, and was answered by a man named Barry. Barry took down Shadow's information, in a voice that managed to be both gruff and nasal at once, and promised to send a tow truck within the next hour.

Shadow drank his coffee while sitting on a blue, handicapped parking-block outside AM/PM's front door. Seventeen minutes later, he went back inside the AM/PM and poured himself another one. Pothead was nowhere to be found, so Shadow left two dollars on the counter. Twenty-two minutes after that, he poured himself another, and he left another two dollars on top of the first.

\--

"It's the starter."

The tow truck driver was a foot shorter than Shadow, and spoke with a heavy Hispanic accent. Underneath the grease, his coveralls were the same royal blue as his truck, and according to the iron-on patch over his breast pocket, his name was Juan Carlos.

"The starter," Shadow repeated.

Juan Carlos nodded. He walked back toward his truck, and Shadow followed.

"Can you fix it?"

"Fix?" Juan Carlos asked. He paused, narrowing his dark eyes. Still parked next to pump four, the El Camino waited patiently for Juan Carlos' decision. Its hood was up, and glinted banana-yellow in what was left of the sun. "No," Juan Carlos said finally. "You need replace."

California really was different in the postcards.

"How long will it take?" Shadow asked.

"If my boss has the part, maybe three or four hours," Juan Carlos said. "If he doesn't, it's ready tomorrow." Juan Carlos leaned inside his truck through the driver's side window, and it roared to life with a worrisome shudder. "Come. I hook you up, and take you down to the shop."

"I'm going to use the bathroom," Shadow said. He needed to; he'd had three cups of coffee in a little over an hour.

The restroom was gray tile, the kind of gray that suggested everything needed a good scrub. It smelled strongly of piss and faintly of stale water, and in the urinal, someone had crafted a soggy mountain out of paper towels and toilet-seat liners.

Shadow opted for the stall. It looked passably clean, aside from the puddle in the middle of the floor, and the toilet had a black seat, which reminded Shadow of elementary school. A perfectly ripped square of toilet paper sat on top of the toilet's tank. Underneath it, Shadow found four hundred dollars in twenties, and another two hundred in tens and fives.

The money still rolled in. Shadow had figured it would stop once he left Scotland, but it hadn't. It came in smaller amounts, and with less frequency, but it still came. It almost didn't surprise him, anymore.

Juan Carlos was waiting when Shadow came out; he'd pulled the tow truck up to the restroom door. The inside of the truck smelled of sweat, gasoline, and more sweat, and a faint strain of Spanish talk-radio fought to be heard over the roar of the engine.

They turned left on Foothill Boulevard, then left on Irwindale Avenue. Just south of the freeway, Shadow learned that Irwindale Avenue had one other point of interest -- a brewery. A line of distillery vats greeted them as they rumbled past, each labeled with the different kinds of beer the Miller Brewing Company had to offer. Smoke curled lazily from their peaked tops, vaguely white against the rapidly purpling sky.

Just past the brewery, a cement marker informed Shadow he was entering the city of Irwindale. Aside from a medical clinic, a tattoo shop, and a bar with the unlikely name of MacGinty's, Irwindale seemed to be an industrial town, the sort of place craftsmen and day-laborers went to die. Storefronts and work-yards and warehouses flanked either side of the street like soldiers, an army made of cinder blocks and aluminum siding and chain-link fences.

"You from out of town?" Juan Carlos asked, as a red light stopped them at the intersection of Irwindale Avenue and Gladstone Street.

"Yeah," Shadow said. He'd drank too much coffee; he had to piss again. On the corner, a hand-painted sign on a squat shop advertised wrought-iron fencing, shaped-to-order. "I'm from Chicago."

Juan Carlos grunted. He eyed Shadow sideways, and Shadow remembered that the El Camino had Ohio plates.

"You visiting family?"

"No," Shadow said. He didn't have a family. His family was dead, and after all the time that had passed since he'd last seen Laura, he was almost certain they would stay that way. "I'm on vacation."

Juan Carlos laughed. "It's not vacation, with the family." They passed a place that repaired heavy equipment; the gutted hulks of forklifts and bulldozers littered its work-yard, strewn across the dirt like bodies on a battlefield. "With the family, it's the same as work. You have children?"

"No," Shadow replied. "Do you?"

"Seven," Juan Carlos replied. "Three boys, four girls." He pushed a button on the stereo, and the talk-radio faded into music, also in Spanish. "And one grandson," he added proudly. "Six months old. He is named for me -- Juan Carlos."

Shadow tried to imagine a family that large, but failed. Growing up, there had only been his mother, and her job, which moved them around so often he'd never had time to make friends. After that, there had been Laura, but Shadow had spent half their marriage in prison, and then Wednesday, but Shadow hadn't realized Wednesday was family until it was too late, until it was obvious everyone would be better off if Wednesday stayed dead.

They hit another stoplight -- Arrow Highway -- and Juan Carlos dug a soft-pack of Camel Filters out of his pocket. From the dashboard, a statuette of the Virgin Mary watched Juan Carlos' orange Bic spark with all the silent judgment a plaster figurine could muster, and Shadow thought about gods.

He wondered where Juan Carlos was from, and he wondered what Juan Carlos had brought with him. He wondered if Juan Carlos had come to America with just his Catholic faith, or if he had brought a piece of his history, a fragment of the gods that died when the Spanish landed in Central America.

"Were you born here?" Shadow asked.

"Mexico," Juan Carlos replied, with his cigarette trapped between his teeth. "Jalisco. My oldest, he come here for work, when he was sixteen, seventeen." The stoplight flickered from red to green, and he pulled out into the intersection. "He met a girl, and he decide to stay, get married. When he make for his _papeles_ \-- his papers -- he bring me over, then my wife, and the children."

"Do you like it here?" Shadow asked. "Better than Mexico?"

"It's the same," Juan Carlos said. "In Mexico, I wake up, I work, I come home, I sleep." He shrugged through a cloud of smoke. "Here, _el mismo_. More money for the work, but I do the same." He yanked on the shifter, and the tow truck changed gears with a thud. "Why you come to California for vacation?"

"Disneyland," Shadow said. "I heard it was the happiest place on Earth."

Juan Carlos snorted. "It's not so much."

"No," Shadow agreed. "It's not."

\--

After dark, Irwindale was a ghost town.

At the tattoo shop, the lights were on, but Shadow didn't think anyone was home, and MacGinty's was the only other sign of life. A yellowish glow flitted through the dusty windows, casting strange shapes on the litter-strewn sidewalk. Laughter and conversation trickled out through the partially open door, mingling with the faint, electrical buzz of MacGinty's battered neon sign.

A small parking lot ran along side the building, and near the door, a young man who looked barely twenty-one was showing his friends his car -- a late seventies Duster he'd purchased just that morning. It was mostly primer, and lacked a side-view mirror, but the young man strutted like a new father, like a man who'd sunk every penny of his last crap paycheck into the new engine under the hood.

Shadow stood outside MacGinty's and shivered. He missed the El Camino like sunlight, felt a strange emptiness that should've been filled by Chicago.

Irwindale Truck & Auto Repair had been closed when Shadow and Juan Carlos arrived. Barry had already gone home, and the mechanic -- Mike, close to thirty, shaved head and tobacco-stained teeth -- had only stayed to let Juan Carlos into the yard. As Juan Carlos had unhitched the El Camino, Mike had explained, in an apologetic and slightly wooden tone, that he couldn't look at it until the morning.

Juan Carlos had decided Shadow could use a drink, and drove him to MacGinty's.

MacGinty's was an Irish pub in the same way an inflatable raft could be considered a ship. It had dark wood furnishings and Guinness on tap, and Shadow, who had actually seen an Irish pub on his travels, ordered a Budweiser, ignored the construction paper shamrocks pasted on the walls, and didn't think about Mad Sweeney.

The bartender was a middle-aged woman named Melanie; she had a ready smile and hair a shade of red that nature never intended. She set a Miller Light on the bar before Juan Carlos' ass was on the stool, then told him, sharply, that his wife had called, and that he was to come home immediately.

And he had.

The door opened; a short, balding man staggered out, followed by a snippet of drunken revelry and the bridge to Freebird. He mumbled -- maybe to Shadow, maybe to himself, but most likely to no one in particular -- and started for the parking lot. He made it just past the newly purchased Duster and its proud owner before vomiting noisily.

\--

"Trick or treat."

It was a pirate. A small one, with a crooked eyepatch and a sword that was both plastic and poorly made. The stubble crawling across his round cheeks was probably his mother's fault, and done with an eyeliner pencil.

"Trick or treat," the pirate repeated, in a tone that was surprisingly harsh around the edges for all its high pitch. He held out a plastic pumpkin expectantly, clutching its black handle with both of his chubby hands.

Shadow had forgotten it was Halloween. Halloween was a children's holiday, and when Shadow was a child, he'd lived in places that didn't celebrate Halloween, or places that celebrated it differently than America. One year, he'd lived in a place where a handful of the adults had celebrated it by dancing naked around a bonfire. He hadn't been old enough to be bothered by it, but his mother had been scandalized for the both of them.

"Oh, Todd. I told you not to bother people on the street."

From the shadows of MacGinty's doorway stepped a woman barely dressed as a French maid. Her neckline was low and her skirt was short, and fishnet stockings crisscrossed her pale legs. She seized the miniature Blackbeard by the hand, and smiled at Shadow apologetically.

"I'm sorry," she said. "He's just so excited. He had the flu last year and the year before, and before that, he was too young. This is the first year he's been able to go out."

"It's fine, ma'am," Shadow said. "I don't mind."

"We're headed for the brewery," she explained. "They're doing a thing over there, for the kids. Trunk or Treat, it's called. People decorate their cars and hand out candy -- it's safer than going door to door."

"Do you live around here?" Shadow asked. He'd been under the impression people didn't live in Irwindale.

"We're from La Puente. We drove over," she said, pointing to a non-descript Hyundai parked half a block down from the bar. "I thought maybe I passed it, so I stopped to ask for directions."

"It's up the street," Shadow said. "You can't miss it."

Todd the Pirate began to pout; his lower lip trembled, and tears welled in his eyes, threatening to ruin his carefully-drawn facial hair. Shadow gave him all the treats he could find in his pockets, which amounted to three sticks of gum, a dollar in quarters, and a business card from Irwindale Truck & Auto Repair, on which Juan Carlos had scrawled the number for the local taxi, so Shadow could get to a hotel.

\--

MacGinty's was smaller that it looked from the outside. The jukebox gave off more light than the lamps, and the floor looked like it needed a good mopping. A slate-blue haze of cigarette smoke curled around the room, in spite of the red and white sign behind the bar that said, in accordance with California state law, MacGinty's was a non-smoking establishment.

The crowd had thickened in the hour since Juan Carlos left, and the smell of sweat and grease clouded the air as heavily as the cigarette smoke. The patrons appeared to be local workers; the men outnumbered the women three to one, and most wore the browns, grays, and dusty jeans of people who earned their paychecks with their muscles.

"There you are," Melanie said, as Shadow walked back inside. "I was starting to think you'd left. Another beer?"

"Sure," Shadow said.

She set a bottle of Budweiser on top of a cardboard coaster advertising Guinness Stout and slid it over to him. He paid her with a five, and waved off the change.

"What's the news on your car?" she asked. She moved to stand directly in front of him, and wiped down the stretch of counter between them with a bright orange rag.

"I won't know until tomorrow," Shadow said. Beer flooded his mouth, and it was just cold enough to burn his tongue. "They were closed when we got there."

"Mike's my brother-in-law," Melanie said. She set the rag aside to fuss with the condiment tray, rescuing the rogue olives that had scaled the partition to join the marischino cherries. "Married to my youngest sister. He's a good guy. He'll do you right."

A large man in ripped jeans and a striped work-shirt lumbered up to the bar. He had a name badge clipped to his pocket; it said his name was John, and that he worked at the brewery. He ordered a rum and coke, easy ice. Melaine poured it with the precision of someone who'd tended bar half her life, fluid grace and no wasted motions.

"You're stuck here for the night," she continued, as if John hadn't interrupted.

"Yeah," Shadow said. "Looks like."

"Did Charlie give you the number for the Arrow Inn?" she asked. Charlie was what Melanie called Juan Carlos; it was some private joke between them, and Shadow hadn't wanted to ask why. "Or a taxi?"

"The taxi," Shadow said. He made a show of patting his pockets. "But I think I lost it."

"Here," she said, producing a business card from somewhere underneath the bar. It was school-bus yellow, with a cliche checkered stripe across the top. "And tell him to take you to the Arrow Inn. He'll know where. It's just down Arrow, in Azusa."

Another person wandered up to the bar, a woman this time, who wanted a whiskey sour. Melanie's bottle of sweet and sour ran out an inch from the top of the glass, and muttering, she disappeared into the depths of the Employees Only area.

A burst of laughter and cheers brought Shadow's attention to the pool table, a slightly crooked thing with dusty felt that had been stashed in the back of the bar like an afterthought. A game was in progress, which a small group of people crowded around the table seemed to be betting on. Both the players were men; one was tall and thin, the other was shorter and fatter, with a greasy comb-over and a cigar wedged in the corner of his mouth.

"Excuse me, are you using this?"

It was a young woman. Shadow wondered if she'd just arrived, because he surely would have noticed her before. She had Bast's hair and Laura's smile, and Shadow blinked at her for a full minute before he realized she wanted the plastic ashtray sitting next to his beer.

"No," he said finally. "It's yours."

"Thanks," she said. She pulled it towards her, and ashed into it with a sharp flick of her wrist. "You new here? I haven't seen you around."

"I'm from out of town," Shadow said quietly. Her eyes were bright blue and quick, and the hem of her wifebeater didn't quite touch the waistband of her jeans. "My car broke down up the street."

"Shitty," she said. "What's your name?"

"Shadow."

She tilted her head, and put her cigarette to her lips. "I don't think so. That's far too interesting."

"It's the only name I've got," Shadow replied. That wasn't precisely true, but he'd been Shadow so long he could almost forget he wasn't, and after Wednesday, forgetting was probably for the best. "What's yours?"

She paused, stubbed her cigarette out in the ashtray. "Saga."

"I don't think so," Shadow said easily, reaching for his beer. "That's far too interesting."

"Yeah, well. My father was an interesting person."

"Was?" Shadow asked. She seemed fairly young, at least five years younger than him. "He died?"

"Couple years back," Saga said. She flopped a pack of Marlboro Light 100's on the bar and pulled one out. "Everyone tried to tell me it was an accident, but I say it was murder."

Shadow took a long swallow of beer. "I'm sorry to hear that."

"You should be."

Shadow didn't understand that, but he didn't try. He'd only had three beers since he arrived at MacGinty's, but that was far more drinking that he'd done in a long time. Saga fumbled through her pockets; her fingers were as long and thin and pale as the cigarette trapped between them.

"Need a light?" Shadow asked. He reached for one of the books of matches stacked next to Melanie's condiment tray, but when he looked back, the tip of her cigarette was already glowing orange.

"No," she said, sitting on the stool next to his. "But you can buy me a drink."

\--

Shadow shifted on his stool, and picked at the salted cashews scattered across his napkin. He'd already finished a packaged of honey-roasted peanuts, but he was still hungry. As it turned out, bar snacks did not make a meal.

Next to him, Saga nursed her drink in silence. It was a Long Island Iced Tea, the third he had purchased for her.

"What about your parents?" she asked suddenly.

"My mom died when I was young," Shadow said.

"And what about your dad?" She reached over and helped herself to his last cashew.

"I met him for the first time a couple of years ago," Shadow replied. "Then he..." He paused, retreating behind his beer. "It's complicated."

"Right."

A commotion broke out at the pool-table as two of the on-lookers argued over the placement of the cue after a scratch. The cigar-smoker with the bad comb-over was still playing, this time with a young, red-headed kid with more freckles than skin. He had played everyone in the bar who was willing, and had won every time. A wad of cash waited for him on one of the rails; he'd not yet bothered to count it, or put it away.

Melanie sauntered past, and Shadow gestured for another beer. It was his sixth -- possibly his seventh -- but he didn't give it a second thought as he passed Melanie another five. He wasn't driving.

"Where were you headed, when your car broke down?" Saga asked.

Shadow picked at the label on his beer. "Las Vegas."

"You gamble?" she asked.

"No," Shadow said. "But I've never been there." And he hadn't, not really. He'd driven through, with Wednesday, but their only stop had been business. Shadow hadn't had time to introduce himself to a slot-machine. "I figure I should go, at least once."

Saga nodded, stirring her drink with its bright red cocktail straw, and Shadow returned to his beer. It was strange, sitting next to her. He hadn't really spoken to a woman since Laura went away for good.

"I've been there," she said, her voice flat. "Lived there for a couple of years."

"You didn't like it?" Shadow asked.

"It's miserable hot, and there's not much to do but piss your money away and fuck."

The door swung open to admit two police officers, which brought the din down to a dull roar. One headed straight for the bar, and the other, serenaded by Jim Morrison stumbling his way through Light My Fire, circled the room like a vulture. Melanie gathered the ashtrays off the bar with a nonchalance Shadow doubted she felt, and without bothering to look over her shoulder, Saga twitched a napkin over her pack of cigarettes.

"You're not supposed to smoke in here," Shadow said slowly.

"Nope," Saga said, shrugging. "Melanie lets us, though."

"Why?"

"Because's she's smart," Saga said. "Smokers will smoke," she added simply. "If we smoke inside, it's a lecture, and maybe a ticket. If we take our drinks outside, the bar has to pay a big, fat fine."

"You could quit," Shadow offered. At the pool table, the carrion cop was harassing the hustler with the comb-over. Shadow wondered if his gambling proceeds would cover his cigar ticket.

"I could," Saga agreed, "but that would be too easy."

She snatched her napkin-covered cigarettes off the bar, stood, and started for the door. Shadow drained his beer, and followed.

The night was crisp and cool. A slight mist was rolling in, lingering around the street lamps, and Shadow wondered if it was fog, or smoke from the brewery. The neon sign over MacGinty's door hummed noisily; the tail of the Y flickered, then winked out.

Saga linked her arm through Shadow's and pulled him toward the street.

"Where are we going?"

"The tattoo place is still open," she replied. "I've been thinking of getting another."

\--

Irwindale Piercing and Tattoo was done in stainless steel and blinding white, with red vinyl armchairs arranged neatly in the waiting area. Sample artwork lined the walls, inside thick, black frames that were arranged in a manner that suggested the interior decorator had used a slide-rule. The neon sign in the widow was as indecisive as the one at MacGinty's; it scrawled the word 'tattoo' in violent pink, and the letters flickered with a rhythm that was all their own.

The kid behind the counter couldn't have been more than twenty, and ink crawled across every visible scrap of skin. His hair was a tousled mess of black and blue and green, and Shadow suspected he could pass quarters through the stretched, metal-rimmed holes in the kid's earlobes. The look on his face said closed, but he nodded when Saga asked if the shop was still open.

"I don't see any tattoos," Shadow said.

Saga thumbed the button on her jeans, smiled, and pulled her zipper halfway down. A strange shape peeked out from under her navel, inked in thick, blue-black lines. Shadow had never seen the symbol before -- a perfect, hollow diamond with a forked tail at the bottom -- but it seemed oddly familiar.

"What does it mean?" he asked.

"It's a family thing," she said quietly. "I got it when my father died." She turned away, and flipped idily through the one of the photo albums that showcased the shop's recent work. "It didn't work out the way I planned." She turned back, closing the album with a snap. "What about you? Do you have any tattoos?"

"No," Shadow said.

"I thought you were in prison."

"I never told you that."

"But you were."

"But I never told you that."

She sighed, and moved away from the counter to linger over a framed sheet that depicted several different kinds of roses. The one in the center was large, almost the size of Shadow's fist, and had petals so dark and full the seemed ready to fall away from the stem.

\--

Twice, the mechanical gypsy gave Shadow the same fortune.

He'd been with Wednesday the first time, and back of the card had been stamped with a cartoon rendition of the House on the Rock. He'd been alone the second, and the back of the card had been stamped with a strange sign, a sign that -- like Saga's tattoo -- he seemed to think he should have seen before.

Eight evenly spaced lines that burst from a center point, each tipped with odd symbols.

The tattoo gun buzzed in his ear like a swarm of bees, and a slow ache spread across his bicep. The pain was slight, but constant, and he breathed through it, the same way he breathed through Laura's funeral and Mad Sweeney's fists and Wednesday's vigil.

He would blame the beer in the morning, if he remembered the beer, at all.

Saga watched intently, perched on a red vinyl stool that matched the armchairs in the waiting area. The kid with the holes in his ears was hunched over Shadow's arm, and that close, Shadow could see his roots; under the dye, his hair was gingery-blond.

The first fortune, Shadow had thrown away. The second, Shadow had hidden away inside his wallet. The kid had made a larger photocopy to transfer onto Shadow's arm, but the original sat on the metal tray that held the kid's tools.

The needle pierced his skin, again and again and again, and Shadow heard a strange hum inside his head, felt something like electricity ready to spark. Low-Key Lyesmith had said they were addictive, before Low-Key was Loki and Mr. World, before he and Wednesday had to die.

He would blame the beer in the morning. He might remember the beer, but he was sure he wouldn't remember the girl.

\--

"The dead walk tonight," Saga said. Her voice was strangely solemn.

Two shots waited for Shadow on the bar, and the ache in his arm had shifted to a dull burn. It wasn't quite midnight, and the crowd had thinned just slightly -- driven out by the police, or the threat of work in the morning. At the register, Melanie sorted through a stack of receipts.

"For my father," she said. She had only ordered one shot, and she squeezed her eyes shut as she tossed it back.

A man appeared at Saga's shoulder; he rested his elbows on the bar and shouted for Melanie's attenion. Melanie passed him a Tecate. The label on the bottle was the same red as his shirt from Al's Construction Rental & Repair, and he jostled Saga as he fished his walled out of his pocket. Saga shot him a look that was both quick and sour, and he mumbled an apology has he handed Melanie a couple of ones.

Shadow watched him walk away.

"He didn't even look at you," he said slowly. She was probably the youngest woman in the room, and easily the prettiest. Strangely, Shadow seemed to be the only one who had noticed. "None of them have."

She shrugged, turned her shot glass upside-down on the bar. She glanced at Shadow, sighed, and reached for her cigarettes.

"They don't see me."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want them to."

Shadow took a shot of Jack, for Wednesday. He also took a shot of Seagrams, but he wasn't sure why he had ordered it.

Outside, the sky was black. The moon was lost, hidden behind brewery-fog and the cinder block temples to industry that made up Irwindale, and with a sharp pop, MacGinty's neon sign gave up the ghost. The parking lot was rough and gravelly, and Shadow's footsteps were loud in the silence.

Saga stopped next to a Ford Ranger with a bedliner and no front license plate. She pulled a set of keys from her pocket, and flicked her cigarette into the Dumpster outside MacGinty's back door.

The alcohol felt heavy, settled sullen in Shadow's veins, and his tattoo itched. He pulled at his sleeve, inspecting the bandage wrapped around it. In the shop, it had been the same bright white as the walls, but now it looked gray, and it was peppered with dark spots of blood.

"Should it be bleeding this much?" Shadow asked.

"It's fine," she said. "You've been drinking, so you're blood's thin." Her hands were cold as they flitted up his arm, and she pulled the bandage away carefully. "Let it get some air."

Shadow heard a soft crackle, smelled the sharp, acrid odor of burning garbage, and turned. Saga's cigarette had sparked a fire in the Dumpster. It was small, but the warm glow painted her face in oranges and yellows.

She crumpled his bandage, and tossed it in the flames.

"Are you hungry?" she asked.

"Yeah."

"Get in," she said, pointing to her truck. "There's a Denny's up the street."

\--

It shared a parking lot with a McDonald's and a Farmer Boys, -- both of which were closed -- and it was probably the largest Denny's Shadow had ever seen. The smell of pancakes and coffee hung in the air, and near the door, the sprinklers watered the pavement as much as they watered the flowers.

It was peach and green inside, and oddly, it had a bar, which was still open, by virtue of it being just past midnight. Two waitresses studied them as they walked in; older women with gray in their hair and the perpetually tired faces of people who worked the graveyard shift.

One gave Shadow and appraising look. The other snorted.

"I'd think you'd find someplace else to go on your day off."

Saga flipped her the bird, and guided Shadow toward a booth near the bar.

"You work here?" Shadow asked.

"Yeah," she said. She waved at a busboy, who stopped sweeping the carpet long enough to wave back. "It's my night job."

The second waitress -- the snorter -- approached the table, armed with a tray of drinks. Two coffees, and two large waters. They hadn't ordered them, but she set them on the table in a way that said she expected Saga and Shadow to drink them.

"What's your day job?" he asked.

"I write romance novels," she said, dumping half the creamers into her cup. "You know the type -- tall, blond hero named Rhett, who falls in love with a virgin named Giselle." She added two sugars and stirred slowly. "There's a series of unfortunate events, someone's mother dies, and then it's all slick folds and thrusting manhoods."

Shadow sipped his coffee. He hadn't bothered with cream or sugar; it was hot and bitter.

"You don't like it." Shadow said. It wasn't a question.

"Nope," she said. "But I'm good at it. And it pays well, when it pays." The waitress came back. Shadow realized he hadn't even looked at the menu, but Saga solved the problem by asking for a Sampler platter and two plates. "I do this so I can still pay the bills when I'm blocked, or when I've got a manuscript stuck in editing limbo."

Shadow frowned. "You don't like this, either." His silverware -- stacked knife, fork, spoon -- was rolled in a napkin, and it looked like a miniature mummy.

"Same thing," she said, with a dismissive gesture. "I'm good at it, and it pays well, when it pays." She pushed her coffee away, and stabbed her water with a straw. A bit of paper was still stuck to the end. "Fridays and Saturdays are good money. Sundays and Mondays are not. Tuesdays can be, if there's karaoke at the bar."

"What would you do, if you had your choice?" Shadow asked. It was a good question, one he wished he could answer himself.

"I'd still write," she replied. "Something real, though." The busboy passed by, carrying a tub of used drinking glasses. They clinked together with each of his steps. "Something with more substance." She drained her coffee, and moved the cup to the end of the table. "What about you?"

"I don't know," Shadow said. It was the truth.

The waitress returned, ostensibly to refill Saga's coffee, but from the way she lingered, Shadow thought she was trying to eavesdrop.

"What do you do, now?" She pulled her coffee to her, and began the creamer ritual all over again.

"I don't really do anything," Shadow admitted.

"No job?"

"I've been traveling," he said quietly.

She tapped her fingers on the table, and crafted the empty creamer cups and sugar packets into a neat pile. "What do you do for money?"

He hesitated, and she leaned back in her seat, studying him.

"You never did tell me why you were in prison."

"I never told you I was in prison."

The food arrived, and Shadow -- who when he went to Denny's, ordered breakfast, because you couldn't go wrong with pancakes and eggs -- learned that a Sampler platter was a couple of chicken strips and a couple of cheese sticks hidden under a handful of onion rings. The waitress passed over a bottle of ketchup, a stack of napkins on top of two saucers, and a wide assortment of dipping sauces before disappearing to do whatever it is waitresses did while their customers ate.

Gossip, Shadow suspected, as she made a beeline for the other waitress and promptly began to whisper.

"Do you know what that is, on your arm?" Saga asked. She rescued a chicken strip from the tangle of onion rings, set it on her plate, and began disect it with her knife and fork.

Shadow folded and onion ring in half and plunged it into what he hoped was barbeque sauce. "No."

"It's a _Vegvisir_ ," she said. "A rune compass." She selected a sliver of chicken and poked experimentally at the ranch dressing. "The Vikings used to paint them on the decks of their ships. To call the gods. For protection, direction, enough wind to get them to their destination."

The tattoo burned. Shadow closed his eyes.

"Nice work, my boy. I couldn't have done it better, myself."

"I could've, if I hadn't been fucking dead."


End file.
